Divisions
by zsp
Summary: Amidst the backdrop of the early years of the Cold War, secret agents Jennie Hamilton and Matthew Stetson (Lee's parents) find their loyalties and their relationship tested as Soviet agents use kidnappings, sabotage, political blackmail, and assassinations to try to divide the West and prevent the formation of NATO. Inspired by Season 4's "Unfinished Business." (In Progress)
1. Chapter 1

_**Divisions**  
_

_Much has been said about Scarecrow and Mrs. King, but very little about Lee's parents Jenny and Matt, despite the significant role their life and death had on his childhood, career, and relationships with others. This story helps fill in some of those gaps. I start at the very end of World War II, during which Jenny and Matt had met in circumstances extraordinarily similar to Lee and Amanda's, and begun a working relationship...and perhaps something more. But can their bond survive the hardships, paranoia, and divisions of an emerging Cold War?_

**I don't own _Scarecrow & Mrs. King_ & I'm not making any money off this.**

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**August 14, 1945. Cecilienhof Palace, Potsdam, Occupied Germany**

The military and diplomatic staffers huddled around the radio on the desk. No one spoke save the Japanese announcer and a few interpreters quietly translating the announcer's words into Russian and Chinese.

_"...To our good and loyal subjects_," the announcer translated into English as Emperor Hirohito spoke.

"_After pondering deeply the general trends of the world and the actual conditions obtaining in Our Empire today, We have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure_."

The announcer paused for a breathless moment. All across the room, hearts pounded. Would this be the moment Japan surrendered, when this terrible war ended—or would the Emperor go back on his word and call for total war against the Americans?

The announcer continued.

"_We have ordered Our Government to communicate to the Governments of the United States, Great Britain, China and the Soviet Union that Our Empire __accepts__ the provisions of their Joint Declaration_."

Cheers went up around the room. Champagne and vodka bottles were quickly produced. Hugs and firm, happy handshakes abounded. Here and there a few staffers kissed. Matthew Stetson grabbed Jenny by the hand and bounded out the door.

The past few months had been full of hard work. Representatives and leaders of the Allied countries had met at Potsdam amidst the ruins of Nazi Germany to tackle the enormous issues of trying to put a broken world back together after 6 years of savage, devastating conflict.

Now, with Japan's surrender, that work seemed to be paying off. The War, for all intents and purposes, was over. Jenny was filled with a giddiness and excitement she hadn't felt in years. The couple ran through the great hall, past the great round conference table, still littered with half-filled glasses of water and the occasional document, out of the palace's lakeside door and sat down on a bench overlooking the beautiful _Jungfernsee_ lake.

The palace grounds, once a residence of the Kaiser, were a vision of the pomp and majesty of Imperial Germany, before Verdun and Versailles had destroyed the German Empire, and before Hitler and the merciless tide of The War had destroyed just about everything else.

They sat for a few intimate moments, silent, embracing each other. They could hear the lake's waves gently lapping on the grassy shoreline. They looked into each other's eyes.

"I have something very important to ask you, Jenny." Matt removed his hat and began to kneel down on the gravel.

Jenny' cheeks turned bright pink. Anglo-Saxon though she was, she could feel her hands getting sweaty. "You'll get your beautiful dress uniform filthy!" she protested weakly, too happy to really care. She trembled slightly. A smile appeared on her face, as a tear dripped down one cheek.

Three years of waiting, three years of keeping their relationship a secret, of muddling through the strains that a career as a covert intelligence officer put on a romantic relationship—all of it, over at last.

"Jenny, will you marry me?" Matt spit out.

He seemed as nervous as the young woman in front of him. But then he looked into those beautiful brown eyes. This was his best friend. This was the woman he loved. This was the one person on earth he knew he had to spend the rest of his life with. Similar thoughts were stirring in Jenny's head. 'Why wait another second?' she told herself. Get 'em while the getting's good. "Of course I will!" she burst out. The couple kissed and embraced, not caring who saw. "I've gotta catch you before you give up and go after some blue-eyed, blonde-haired _fraulein_," she quipped. "I've seen a few glancing at you..."

Loud pounding obliterated the rest of her words.

The dreamy image quickly vanished as Jenny woke up with a start.


	2. Chapter 2

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

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**Chapter 2**

Jenny looked around, trying to get her bearings.

She was laying in simple metal-framed bed in an ornately adorned room in the palace. A prim, matronly senior intelligence officer was standing at the door to her room. She rubbed the sand out of her eyes and squinted at the woman. Definitely one of those lackeys that were always running around bearing bad news.

"What day is it officer….?"

"_Sergeant_ Grey_, _ma'am. It is the 21st of August, ma'am." She said in a sneering, slightly annoyed tone.

Two blissful days since her American prince had asked her to spend the rest of her days with him. They'd flown by so fast.

Sergeant Grey cleared her voice. "I have a _message_ for you Major," she said, in the same disrespectful tone. Jenny nodded for her to continue.

Grey took out a crumpled piece of paper and read dryly "Major Hobbs, you are requested and required to attend a meeting of the BICP at 1000 hours in the Servant's Dining Hall." She stared blankly at Lydia, who sleepily nodded her head. The woman closed the door without a word.

'What a killjoy!' she thought. 'Doesn't she know the war's over?' Some people seemed to be on self-imposed happy rations all the time. Wouldn't want to say a kind word unless it helps the war effort, don't you know.

She got ready and walked down to the dining hall, showing her identification to the various guards as she went past. "Good morning Vladimir!" she cheerfully remarked to the friendly Ukrainian guard as she passed the doorway to the Soviet quarters.

"Good morning, _solnyshko*_" Vladimir said, his voice unusually solemn. Something was on his mind. She was about to ask what was wrong, when one of the great clocks in the hall starting banging out its mournful tune.

It was 10 o' clock.

She sprinted through the corridor and down the stairs and quietly opened the door to the Servant's Hall, the conference room and headquarters of the British Intelligence Contingent at Potsdam. Here there were elite members of Signals Intelligence in charge of foreign intelligence, the Security Service, overseeing internal intelligence, the cloak-and-dagger Special Operations Executive, and some special representatives from other agencies.

In the diverse crowd she could pick out Poles, Czechs, Frenchmen (and women), Norwegians, Arabs, Indians, even an Ethiopian. She knew Australians, South Africans, Canadians, Rhodesians, and many others from across the Empire and the world were gathered here to contribute their unique skills and knowledge.

Sergeant Grey glared at her from across the room and checked her off on her attendance list, but before she could stomp across the room and reprimand her, a man walked through the door behind Jenny.

Everyone's mouth was slightly agape. It was none other than Clement Atlee, the newly elected Prime Minister.

Everyone in the room had seen Atlee as they did their duties at the conference, but being addressed by the Prime Minister himself was quite another thing. He walked to the center of the room and spoke. "I apologize that this meeting is so informal and that I cannot entirely bring you good news." He paused and gazed at all the earnest, curious faces staring intently at him.

"First, I want to thank each of you for your extraordinary service. Through your excellent work you have saved the Peoples of the British Commonwealth from perhaps the worst tyranny the world has ever seen. It was through your work that we have, finally, vindicated those who have fought, bled, and died through a noble, final peace."

He smiled gently. A cheer arose, but quickly died down as Atlee held his hand up. His face turned grim.

"I also am afraid I have to deliver some news of a less pleasant nature."

He let out a small sigh.

"I regret to inform you that there is one formerly in our midst whom we fear has violated the solemn trust placed in them by their country, and by their Allies. I am glad to say it is no one in the British intelligence service."

There was a sigh of relief around the room.

An American covert intelligence officer, one Colonel Matthew L. Stetson, working for the Office of Strategic Services, was recently identified by sources both in American intelligence and in the Security Service as having been in the employ of the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, leaking sensitive information to Soviet intelligence officials. This morning at 7, Soviet officials confirmed that Mr. Stetson formally defected to Soviet military officials. and that he had embarked on a train to Moscow at approximately 2:00 this morning, local time."

Jenny's head spun.

How could this be happening? Was this a dream? A nightmare?

_*_Solnysko _is a pet name in Russian meaning "Sunshine." Vladimir is, in fact, an ethnic Ukrainian, but, like many Ukrainians then and now, his first language is Russian._

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	3. Chapter 3

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story. Please let me know what you think.**_

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**Chapter 3  
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9 March 1949, Icelandic Embassy, Washington, DC**

Ambassador Bjorni Benediktsson had just crawled under the soft, warm covers when, to his irritation, there was a knock on his door. He switched off the light on his lamp and rolled over, pretending to sleep.

There was another knock. It was ignored.

A third knock prompted a terse response from Bjorni. "What is it?" he muttered in Icelandic.

"Telegraph, sir" came the voice of his aide.

"Unless there's been an atom bomb attack on Reykjavík or a Soviet invasion, it can wait until tomorrow."

"Well, it might as well be, sir. It's a message from the Socialist Party leadership. It says its urgent."

Ever since the US demanded the air base at Keflavik, the Socialist Party had done nothing but stir up trouble for Bjarni's nascent Independence Party. He would like to have ignored their furious ideological rants about American imperialism and the government's _shameful_ kow-towing to the _decadent_ capitalist Westerners, but he was the Foreign Minister after all. He flipped the light on, crawled out of bed, and walked over to the door. In the presence of his aide, he read the telegram.

RUMORS OF ALLIANCE WITH IMPERIALIST AMERICAN DOGS. HOPE UNFOUNDED. NO ENTANGLEMENTS WITH WAR CRIMINALS!. REMEMBER THE CONDITION. THE PEOPLE ARE WATCHING!.

Bjarni crumpled up the telegram, and threw it on the floor.

Downstairs, the telephone rang. A voice called out from below "Bjarni, its for you. It's the Norwegian Embassy."

The ambassador ran downstairs and picked it up. Some nearby female staff members giggled.

He was still in his bedclothes.

He shooed them away and greeted the caller. It was Halvard Lange, the Norwegian Foreign Minister. He sounded worried.

"Halvard, what are you calling about at this ungodly hour?"

"Bjarni, I have just received some disturbing news."

"What?"

"I just received word that your Government is pulling out of the North Atlantic talks."

"Preposterous!"

Halvard breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad to hear it. Iceland is our great northern link in the chain, you know." Iceland was an important stop-over for aircraft heading from North America to Europe, and therefore vital to any North Atlantic alliance.

"Well, lets hope it stays that way," Bjarni said, slightly irked that Halvard seemed to show little concern for Iceland beyond its strategic location.

"What do you mean?" Halvard paused for a brief moment. "What are you hearing Bjorni?"

"Nothing of too much substance. There has been a leak to the Opposition back at home. We can take the heat from them for now-we have before. But there's many a man who wants Iceland to stay out of international politics."

Despite Iceland's declaration of neutrality early in the Second World War, thousands of British, then American troops had occupied the island nation, in a pre-emptive attempt to prevent a German invasion. At one point there had been more American soldiers on the island than Icelandic men. Many Icelandic women were left to raise the children some of these "invaders" had fathered. The phenomenon was called _Ástandið_, a euphemism meaning "The Condition."

"What's the damage?"

"If leaks and rumors like this keep spreading, you might just have to kiss your NATO alliance goodbye."

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	4. Chapter 4

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story. Please let me know what you think.**_

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******Chapter 4**

**11 March 1949, The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.**

"Jenny, can I see you a moment?" Lord Inchira* called across the small office space to where Jenny was standing over a group of reconnaissance photos. The young agent navigated her way through the bustle of the office. Foreign staffers surged around her. She identified at least 3 distinct languages as she walked past.

"Sir?"

The British diplomat pulled her into a small office temporarily abandoned by the throngs of personnel just outside. He pulled a paper out of a file and handed it to Jenny.

It was a copy of a French newspaper article written on plain typing paper.  
Jenny's French was a bit rusty but she read slowly "American Government Allegedly Funds UDMA."

"UDMA...they're an Algerian political organization calling for independence from the French."

"That's correct."

"If the French think the Americans are undermining their control of North Africa, they won't be too happy."

"No," Inchira agreed. "A patriotic editor at _Le Monde_'s Washington bureau passed this information on to French intelligence. They say their reporter has a reliable source, a _pied noir_** on business in the States who's on familiar terms with the Muslim intelligentsia. Fortunately, the US ambassador in Paris was able to discredit this source and prove the Americans aren't involved before the story could be printed."

He put the paper down and pulled out a pair of photographs. Jenny examined the photographs.

"Do you know what these are?" the diplomat asked.

"Yes they're bugs, covert listening devices."

"Yes, quite right. Standard MI6 gear until last year, I'm told. They were found in an office in the Norwegian Embassy."

He pulled a packet out of the folder. Attached was the photo of a dead man.

"_This _is a report from the CIA, detailing a planned bombing of the Greek embassy by an Italian national of Turkish birth.***"

He handed Jenny the file folder. "I have at least 5 other reports of suspicious activity threatening the interests of Copenhagen, Reykjavic, Lisbon, Brussels, Dublin, even Ottawa-all centered on this city. The blame game's been kept at bay for now, but every incident makes it a little harder to prove the false allegations wrong."

"And it just so happens that all of these countries are involved in the NATO talks here at The Pentagon in one way or another."

"Precisely."

The young agent raised an eyebrow.

"Sounds like someone's trying to ruffle some North Atlantic feathers."

"And I want _you_ to find out who it is."

_*Based on Frederick Millar, an actual British NATO diplomat. Mr. Millar was knighted in 1949 and later made "Baron Inchyra." In the cover photograph of this story, depicting President Truman signing the NATO Treaty, Millar can be seen on the far left.  
** _Pieds-noirs_ are people of European descent who were born and raised in French colonies (Morocco, Algeria, & Tunisia) in North Africa in the early 20th century. Unlike their Muslim neighbors, they usually had full political rights and closer ties to the French colonial overlords. Many fled Algeria after the country's independence.  
***Greece was in the midst of a civil war at the time and the government in Athens had no counter-intelligence agency. Instead the newly created CIA provided intelligence. Turkey and Greece had a long history of poor relations, including the expulsion of ethnic Greeks from Turkey in the 1920's, and Italy had invaded Greece during WWII, with the last Italians in Greece surrendering in 1945, just 4 years before.  
_

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	5. Chapter 5

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

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******Chapter 5**

**Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice Building*, Washington, DC**

The big man in front of her let out a long, heavy sigh. He let the file fall dramatically on the desk, the resulting breeze scattering some of the neatly organized piles of paperwork. "You know, Ms….?"

"Hamilton. Jennie Hamilton."

"Right, _Jennie_. Now, you're in charge of security for the British NATO diplomats, correct?"

"Yes. I also pass along relevant intelligence from the various British intelligence agencies to our diplomats, and conduct my own intelligence, as in this instance."

"I see," he said in a patronizing tone. "Now, just how long have you been in Washington?"

"About 3 months, sir. I arrived in January."

The FBI director raised an eyebrow.

"A _whole_ _three_ _months_?"

"Respectfully, Director, I fail to see how that's relevant to the issue at hand."

"Relevant?" He chuckled. "I'll tell you what's _relevant_."

He pointed to his desk. "J. Edgar's been in this office quite some time. I ran this Bureau when it was nothing but a handful of cheap suits chasing second-rate bootleggers with little more than primitive forensics and semi-functional tommy guns. In my 25 years at the helm, I've built the finest law-enforcement agency anywhere in the world." He handed the file back to Jennie.

"I know _everything_ that goes on in this city. I can tell you which of your British embassy colleagues went looking for a good time on the town last night-and where they went. I can tell you what shoes the Albanian spy at Green's is wearing. I can tell you what toothpaste President Truman uses. If the milk truck down in Foggy Bottom runs a few minutes late, chances are one of my guys knows about it. I know what goes on around here. And unless you can tie all these events together with some proof into a nice little early Easter present and give me a plausible name to stick on it, my secretary will politely show you the door."

Jennie walked out to her car. 'Arrogant fool,' she thought. The man cared more about his image then catching spies that threatened the security of the entire Free World. Opening the right hand door of the vehicle, she slipped inside.

Fishing out her keys, she reached for the ignition.

There was nothing there.

Jennie let out a sigh of frustration. Yet again she was trying to drive on the _left_ side of the road. As she prepared to get out, she felt something brushing the back of her leg. Feeling around under her seat her fingers encountered a soft, paper-like texture. She pulled it out.

It was a newspaper

"The _Washington Star**,_" she read out loud.

It was considered by many in Washington to be the paper of record in the area, the go-to source for information in the nation's capitol.

As the Intelligence Attaché to Britain's NATO mission, she had been poring over many of the city's newspapers for the past few months, looking for leaks and gauging the general attitude of American politicians and people towards the treaty. She was incredibly up-to-date on American political and social happenings, but had yet to find anything worth reporting.  
But this newspaper was different from the ones she'd read before. On the cover page the headline ran "Bunche Accomplishes Arab-Israeli Armistice." The word "Bunche" was circled with red ink.

Jennie paused for a moment.

She never circled words or articles in newspapers, she simply cut out clippings. Even if she did, the Armistice ending the Arab-Israeli War had little to do with her particular assignment. Even stranger, few people would know that she stowed documents under her seat, and even fewer would conclude that she frequently got into the left seat of her car by accident.

It had to be someone who knew her well, or had been observing her for a long time. Whoever it was, it seemed likely that they were trying to tell her something important, perhaps even something significant to her case.

She studied the newspaper again.

"Bunche." That must be Ralph Bunche. The famous American diplomat was being hailed a hero, having helped pull off the armistice between Israel and Egypt, despite the murder of his fellow diplomat and against all hope.**

It seemed clear that Bunche had something to do with the mysterious circler. He was a busy man, flitting here and there on UN business, but she'd heard he was he was in Washington for a few days. Maybe he could be of some help. Quickly glancing about, she casually walked over to a payphone and found a city directory.

She flipped through to the "B's" until she found the man's name

Bunche lived in a house in Bellevue.

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_*The FBI was headquartered in the historic Department of Justice Building on Pennsylvania Avenue from 1930 to 1974, when it moved to its current headquarters at the J Edgar Hoover Building across the street. The DOJ Building is still used by the US Government, perhaps most notably by the secret US Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. _  
_**The Washington Star, now out of business, really was the primary newspaper in DC at the time._  
_***Ralph Bunche was a real American diplomat who helped negotiate the 1949 armistice ending the Arab-Israeli War of 1948. His fellow negotiator Folke Bernadotte was assassinated in Jerusalem in 1948. A second man, Andre Serot, who was travelling in the same vehicle was mistaken for Bunche and killed as well._

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	6. Chapter 6

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story. Please let me know what you think.**_

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******Chapter 6**

**Bellevue Neighborhood, Washington, DC**

Jennie felt out of sorts as she drove through the affluent neighborhood. All around her were rich Victorian-era houses with perfectly manicured lawns and shiny new cars sat in freshly-paved driveways. Shady trees lined the streets. The friendly bark of dogs and chirping of birds could be heard.

Back in England there had been little of this sort of thing. Oh sure, there were the big manor houses, but even these were falling apart, thanks to an impoverished, depopulated gentry. London, like many English cities still sported ruins from the war, some four years after the end of the war. Rationing had actually gotten stricter _after _V-E Day, and at the recent London Olympics, athletes were told to bring their own towels because of cost.

Her cheap Buick, sporting the un-imaginative blue of the diplomatic service, was all the money-strapped government in London could afford to give her. She had had to beg and barter to get this vehicle.

Jennie shrugged. At least it worked.

She finally pulled in at Bunche's address and walked up to the stately front door. A maid answered.

"I'm Ms. Hamilton. I believe Mr. Bunche may have some information I need."

The maid nodded.

"I'll warn you. Mr. Bunche is a very busy man. He may not be able to see you."

"Tell him it's a matter of some urgency."

"One moment" she whispered, a scowl on her face, and quickly walked away. Clearly a great deal of people came to Mr. Bunche with urgent matters.

To her surprise, a few moments later a man in casual, if pricey attire appeared.

"Are you Ms. Hamilton?" he asked.

She nodded. "Jennifer Hamilton, British Secret Intelligence Service."

"I'm Ralph Bunche," he said. For once, Jennie was taken aback. In all the photos she'd ever seen of Ralph Bunche who looked white. The man in front of her was black, albeit a very light shade.

"That's most people's reaction to finding out that Ralph Bunche is in fact a _Black_ man." He laughed somewhat grimly.

"I admit I'm a bit surprised sir, but not because of any prejudice, I assure you. In Britain, we generally don't make such a fuss about these things. SIS actually employs a number of Caribbean and African agents, but I thought things were less…well..._enlightened_ over here."

"You're generally right, when it comes to race anyway. Walk into any park in Washington and you'll realize that.* But some things _are _changing. President Truman just de-segregated the military and the civil service, and even here in DC some parents are pushing the schools to integrate.** But we still have a very, very long ways to go."

He invited her inside. "So, you're from MI6?"

She nodded.

"Yes. Let me introduce myself. I'm Jennie Hamilton, on assignment with the NATO mission over at the Pentagon."

She shook hands with Bunche.

"We've been experiencing some small leaks and breaches. I received a…communication that led me to believe that you might be able to help me." She began to pull out the newspaper, feeling a bit sheepish. How would she explain her winding logic to this great diplomat, who assuredly had more important matters on his mind. Or worse, perhaps he wasn't to be trusted.

But before she had pulled the newspaper completely out, Bunche locked eyes with her. His face was serious, although his voice remained pleasant. "

Perhaps, ma'am, you'd like to see my study. Its much warmer in there." His glance told her that this was not an option.

"Yes, I believe that is an excellent idea. Your foyer is a bit chilly." Bunche led her down a hall, gesturing away the maid who was dutifully carrying a tray of tea towards them. He opened a beautiful old mahogany door and stepped in, carefully closing the door behind them.

But Jennie was not looking at the door, nor paying attention to Bunche any longer.

She was looking at Matthew Stetson.

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*_Washington parks were de-segregated in 1954  
**In 1949, a group of African-American parents petitioned to have __John Phillip Sousa Junior High in the Washington public school system integrated. When their petitions were rejected, they took the case to the Supreme Court. The resulting case, _Bolling vs. Sharpe_, was decided on the same day as the landmark desegregation case _Brown vs. Board of Education_, and is considered an extension of it. DC schools were some of the first to be integrated in the nation.  
_

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_


	7. Chapter 7

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

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******Chapter 7**

**September 1948. Arzamas-16*, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, Soviet Union**

Matthew Stetson tried to keep his mind focused on the work in front of him. He'd been staring at number patterns all day, and he felt like his brain couldn't handle another digit.

He knew he was lucky. Since he'd been kidnapped 3 years before in Germany he'd been far worse off. He'd been battered by disease and the cold in an East German NKVD camp, endured endless nights of interrogation at the infamous Lubyanka prison, seen young men succumb to malaria or hard labor in a Siberian gulag**.

His mind drifted to Jennie. Her face, her dark hair, her dry English humor was a faded memory now, and yet one that kept him going. And yet she was also a great source of his anxiety.

How much did she know?

What did she think?

Had she found someone else?

What if, by some horrible chance, she too was taken?

"Get back to work!" a guard shouted in Russian as he passed by Matt's desk.

'Only one more hour,' he thought.

When the Soviets had come to the conclusion that the young American intelligence agent they'd seized one night walking along the lakeshore in Potsdam wouldn't give up any secrets either to gain worldly incentives or to save his neck, they had little use for him, sending him to rot in Siberia.

But a grim, bespectacled man named Lavrentiy Beria had other ideas.

Beria was the ruthless chief of the NKVD.

Though no humanitarian, Beria saw little point in waste. He'd quickly picked up on Matt's ingenuity and smarts when he was caught during an elaborate attempt at escape from a camp Beria was visiting.

That's how Matt had ended up here, processing numbers, performing calculations-along with hundreds of other human 'computers.'

Everything about this place was odd. No one seemed to know why they were here beyond their own specialized work, which they were forbidden to speak of.

The former agent had noticed the men in suits with the comfortable homes and fancy cars walking the streets. He could guess at their jobs: scientists. But what were they working on?

In one of many surveillances of the town, Matt had heard one of the big whigs call the place 'Los Arzamas'-an apparent pun on the name Los Alamos, a secret US government research lab in New Mexico.

Word was some pretty heavy stuff had been tested at Los Alamos, but Matt hadn't been privy to exactly what.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw another guard coming around.

He hurried up and got back to work.

An hour later the short siren rang indicating the end of the shift. Around him, workers packed up their few possessions and prepared to make the cold walk home to get a bit of sleep.

But Matt had other plans. Tonight he would escape.

Filtering toward the door with the masses, he punched out, then slowly drifted away from the others, hiding his face in his hood so he wasn't recognized. Avoiding the large streetlights and the perimeter fence, he finally got to a dark patch of snow and lay down.

Up on the hill was a building he knew was frequented by the scientists, likely a laboratory or something of the kind. If he could get in there and steal some information, perhaps he could use it as a bargaining chip, either with the Soviets should he be caught or with his own government, should they not welcome him back with open arms.

If worse came to worse, he could destroy it, depriving the USSR of at least some scientific work they had accomplished, however minor it might be.

He crawled across the frozen ground, stopping anytime he thought he saw people in the nearby street.

Finally, caked in mud and snow, he made his way to the top of the hill.

As he suspected, there appeared to be guards at the front door. He moved along the side of the building, looking for a way in.

Finally he found a window, open slightly at the bottom, a light shining out.

'They're getting a bit careless,' Matt mused to himself. A grin broke out on his face as he moved toward the light.

Suddenly he heard voices from the window. He quickly crouched down. He could see the shadow of a man on the snow inches away from his position.

"Mr. Beria, the information that our American contact provided is invaluable. However, it will set back our development of a workable bomb substantially. You see we found the Americans used the gaseous diffusion method..."

"I care little for the technical details Mr. Kurchatov. The Politburo wants to know when a test on a workable atomic device can be conducted."

Atomic? So the Soviets were working on an atom bomb. Stetson had heard of the atom bombs the same times as everyone else-mere days before he was kidnapped.***

He didn't know much about them other than that they possessed terrible destructive power. It seemed the Soviets were keen to get their hands on another such device

Kurchatov's shadow looked down at the ground.

"To be candid, probably August of next year, at best."

"August!?" Matt heard Beria say.

"Hey!" a voice suddenly called in Russian.

Matt whipped around.

"Who are you!? What are you doing!?"

In the dark he could just barely make out the form of a man running in the snow, pursued by another. Sirens wailed and spotlights turned toward the offender. Now was his chance.

He spotted a truck sitting near the front gate. Calmly walking past guards rushing the other direction, Matt inconspicuously climbed into the back of the truck, and found a crate to hide in.

Moments later, Matt noticed a bright light through a crack in his crate.

"All good in here, he heard a guard say nonchalantly.

The trucks engine roared as it pulled forward, sending a thrill of exuberation through his body. He was finally free!

As the truck pulled through the gate, he heard gunshots ring out in the distance.

Some poor fellow wasn't so lucky.

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_

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_*Arzamas-16 was the name of Sarov, Russia from 1946 to 1991. Because of the top secret work conducted there, it was a "closed city" meaning entry was extremely restricted and its location was not shown on unclassified maps. As is mentioned later, Russian scientists jokingly called it "Los Arzamas," after the top-secret Los Alamos Laboratories in the United States. Otherwise, however, my description of it is completely fictional._

_** The NKVD was an intelligence/secret police service, more commonly known by its later name, the KGB. NKVD set up prison camps in East Germany after the war to hold POWs and political dissidents. The Lubyanka building, situated on Lubyanka Square in Moscow, was the infamous headquarters of the NKVD, with a prison in its basement. It is still used today, although the KGB has been replaced by the FSB. A _gulag _was a Soviet prison camp, common under notorious dictator Joseph Stalin, although, contrary to depictions on the show, they seem to have been phased out by the 1960's. Most of the camps were actually located in the western "European" part of the Soviet Union, not Siberia._

_*** Arzamas-16 was a major center of the early Soviet nuclear weapons program. In 1948, 3 years into the Cold War, the Soviet Union didn't have a working nuclear bomb. I have no indication that __Arzamas-16 actually used forced labor, though the nuclear program itself did, usually for hazardous tasks_ like mining uranium or setting up test sites. Beria, as the head of the powerful NKVD, was the ultimate head of the program, though he was a bureaucrat not a scientist. Igor Kurchatov was one of the head scientists working in the Soviet nuclear program.


	8. Chapter 8

_**I don't own Scarecrow & Mrs. King & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story, and a special thanks to those of you who have commented and followed and favorited so far! Please let me know what you think.**_

* * *

******Chapter 8**

**11 March 1949****, Ralph Bunche' Home, Washington, DC**

"So you're saying there's a major Soviet spy ring with high-level connections in Washington?"

Jennie clenched her jaw, her sidearm pointed at Matt's forehead.

"Yes. And I believe this same spy ring is both passing along information about the US nuclear program and using its connections and influence to drive a wedge between the Western democracies."

"Blatant fear-mongering and bluffing."

"Oh? And I suppose you have another explanation for the recent events?"

"What makes you think the Soviets are specifically trying to divide the NAT-the Western democracies?"

"The newspapers, common sense, and some connections of my own..." Matt glanced toward Bunche.

"And why exactly should I believe you?" said Jennie, her face hard and unemotional, her sidearm still pointed firmly at Matt. "Why exactly should I believe the man who disappeared behind Soviet lines after years of working together through thick and thin, after repeatedly professing his love for me, after asking me to _marry_ him?

He bowed his head.

"You're right. You shouldn't."

Jennie gave him a puzzled look.

"_You_ need my contacts and my information to find whoever's trying to sabotage the North Atlantic Treaty. _I _need your help to clear my name. You'll just have to trust me." he said icily.

His expression suddenly softened.

"There was a time when you would never hesitate to trust me, when you would risk being branded a traitor because you believed in me and my word."

Jennie glared at him.

"Are you telling me that the Prime Minister was_ lying_ when he said you defected?"

"No. I'm telling you, Jennie, that the _Russians_ lied about my defection."

"And what reason would they have for doing so?"

"Because the American government is not overly fond of its agents being kidnapped by their allies, tortured, interrogated, and sent to rot in a Siberian POW camp." He was clearly starting to get angry.

It was horrible, the thought of Matt enduring such terrible misery. She looked up, as stern as ever. "For all I know you could have made this all up. I'm well aware of NKVD's abilities," she said, referring to the Russian intelligence agency. As she looked at the man before her, she felt an utter lack of conviction. Her words came out brazen and bold, but to her they sounded dead and empty.

"Jennie," Matt said softly, his eyes earnest and full of emotion, "I've experienced firsthand the brutality and culture of deception of the Soviet system. If you don't accept my help, you are practically giving the Soviets The Bomb-the ultimate tool of coercion and aggression-with no united front to stop them. They will plow through Asia and Europe, gobbling up territories millions of our men-

"-and _women_."

Matt nodded in agreement "Yes...and women too...bled and fought and died so recently to liberate from totalitarianism and expansionism."

He sighed wistfully.

"In the past 4 years 12 nations have fallen under Soviet power. China will soon follow their lead. And then there's Greece, Turkey, Indochina, South Korea...there are at least half a dozen other countries which totter on the brink."

"I know Matt! I'm in British intelligence, remember?"

"Then accept my help!"

Jennie studied his face. It was handsome, with silky brown hair, and a very attractive mustache she used to joke tickled her when they kissed. But it was also creased with deep lines, and his facial features were chiselled, even sunken Se was rather alarmed at how much weight he'd lost.

It had been a terrible four years. She'd advanced in her career, but only because the loss of Matt had forced her to bury her emotions deep down, had helped her to throw herself into her work with near ruthless efficiency.

And now, he had the audacity, guilty or not, to intrude back into her life, to upset the careful balance she had imposed.

She sighed. In the end, he was right. She had to trust him. To throw away such an offer would be wasteful. Even if he _was_ a Soviet spy, spreading misinformation, perhaps she could track him to other spies in Washington.

"Very well," she said, reluctantly. "But one false move and I'll put lead in your face so fast you won't know what hit you."

"Fair enough," Matt said. His words seemed to lack conviction as well. He almost seemed…heartsick.

'Utter nonsense,' she thought, as Bunche gestured for them to follow him.


	9. Chapter 9

_**I don't own **_**Scarecrow & Mrs. King**_** & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story, and a special thanks to those of you who have commented and followed and favorited so far! Please let me know what you think.**_

* * *

******Chapter 9**

**11 March 1949, ****M Street, Washington DC**

"Where are you taking us Bunche?" asked Matt looking worriedly out the window.

M Street, a busy artery for much of its length, was now narrowing to a small lane, caught between the swampy bank of the AnacostiaRiver and a set of railroad tracks. Through the trees on the other side of the railroad tracks he could see what looked like the Congressional Cemetery. The area didn't look promising.

"The Seafarer's Yacht Club."

"No offense, but what's a _yacht club_ doing down here?" asked Jenny, already beginning to doubt her faith in Bunche and Stetson.

"Well it's a long story. Basically the Department of the Interior didn't want to sell the land to a amateur boat-builder named Lewis Green because he was black. Fortunately for Green, he was friends with a bigwig in President Roosevelt's so-called "Black Cabinet." She convinced the First Lady to use her influence. The Government relented, but gave him this swampy parcel at the end of M Street."

"And why are we going here?"

"Call it human intelligence gathering."

Bunche reached the end of the road. To their right were some small wooden buildings and some rough, hand-made docks. As they got out of the car they could smell the tempting scent of fried fish. A group of African-Americans stood around a fryer, talking loudly. A few women stood at the fryer dishing out big portions to members of the crowd. All around the small property, people were eating fish, chatting, cleaning their boats. A young couple was holding hands and talking, leaning against one of the buildings. Bunche quickly ushered his guests up to the fryer, where large chunks of the best-smelling and most grease-soaked fried fish they'd ever seen was slapped on their plates. Before they knew it, they were mingling with the crowd. During a dull moment, a muscular man came up and introduced himself.

"Amos Parkins" he said simply. He shook hands with Jennie and Matt. "I hear you folks are thinking of joining the yacht club."

The pair nodded. "Ah…yeah…yeah," said Matt, looking for guidance at Jennie and his friend Ralph. What was Bunche's game? What kind of information did he think they could dredge up here, of all places?

"I feel obliged to tell ya all, we're currently all-black. Not that we discriminate. White folks come and sign up, and you're all welcome, but then they find out that they're the only whites. It makes them feel a little out of place."*

"Oh we don't mind," said Jenny consolingly.

"You got good food and good people, and that's more than I can say for most of the boat clubs in DC."

They all laughed. "Yes, that's probably true. What size boat y'all have?"

"A small one…"Jenny began.

"A 45 footer" Matt was saying simultaneously. They looked at each other.

"Well it seems sort of small to her" Matt continued, improvising on the spot. "She grew up in Portsmouth, England. I'm sure our little _Sea Gull _is tiny compared to the big battleships she saw going back and forth in Spithead during the war."

Amos looked at Jennie and grinned. "I know what you mean. I work at the Navy Yard down the road. We got some big ships coming out of there these days. I'm working on the cruiser _Arapaho_ myself. Beautiful ship."

By now another man had drifted into the conversation. "Didn't old Jimmy Forrestal visit the Yard last week?"

"The Secretary of Defense? I thought President Truman fired him," Matt chimed in, suddenly interested.

"Yeah, that was the weird part," Amos replied, his face growing more serious. "Mr. Forrestal used to be Navy Secretary back in the day, so he could've just been visiting old friends, but there was something about it that didn't seem right. He looked very pale and had this folder under his arm. He was pacing around near the _San Antonio _like he was waiting for someone."

"Listen to this guy," the other man laughed. "He think he FBI or somethin'." Everyone laughed. Matt and Jennie grinned nervously.

"I don't know," said Amos, trying to hold his ground. "Somethin' was fishy about it. Sounds like some kinda blackmail if you ask me."

It was quiet for a moment

Bunche glanced over at Matt, who conspicuously looked down at his watch and announced "I think we'd better be going. The Smithsonian's holding a benefit bash over at the Castle tonight."

"We hear the First Lady might even make an appearance,"** Jennie added excitedly.

She received only empty smiles and half-hearted nods. It crossed her mind: likely none of these men or women would be welcome at such an event. Their skin color automatically disqualified them.

"Okay, well we'll see ya folks! Come back and visit us!" There were numerous farewells as the three walked to the car and drove away slowly down the narrow road. "Where to now?" asked Jennie forgetting her distrust for a moment.

"Well, that whole incident with James Forrestal sounded interesting."

"I knew Jimmy Forrestal. Very vocal in the Arab-Israeli debate. He thought Israel should a unified federalized state including both Arabs and Israelis, instead of being partitioned into two nations,*** and that gained him many enemies. Eventually he had some sort of mental breakdown and was dismissed by President Truman. I think he's at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda."****

"Whether Mr. Forrestal has connections to our case or not, he probably can give us information on where to look next."

"And we have the leverage to make him talk," added Jennie with a grim smile.

* * *

_*The story of the Seafarer's Yacht Club is true. To this day the African-American yacht club is located at the end of M Street and continues to hold fish fry events._

_**First Lady Bess Truman was renowned for her contempt for the pomp and ceremony of Washington life. She spent much of the year away from Washington, and held only one press conference during her time as First Lady._

_***As it turned out, the UN's plan to partition Palestine into an Israeli and an Arab state failed due to Arab opposition. Today, all of Palestine is technically a part of Israel, although the Palestinians control the West Bank and Gaza Strip.  
_

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10

_**I don't own **_**Scarecrow & Mrs. King**_** & I'm not making any money off this.**_

_**Thanks for reading my story, and a special thanks to those of you who have commented and followed and favorited so far! Please let me know what you think.**_

* * *

******Chapter 10**

**March 11, 1949, National Naval Hospital, Bethesda, Maryland**

Jenny felt a migraine coming on. The fastidiously uniformed, blond-haired blue eyed Navy nurse had been chattering away ever since they arrived. 'And yet' Jenny thought 'she really has nothing to say.'

The nurse opened a door to the Psychiatric Ward. "Those nasty newspapermen, they said terrible things about poor Mr. Forrestal. They say the old man just couldn't take it any more."

Matt rolled his eyes in Jenny's direction. He too was wearying of the nurse's babbling.

Jenny suppressed a smile, which Matt caught. He couldn't help a brief grin himself.

The nurse had paused. "You two are awful quiet." She stopped for a second. A worried look came over her face. "I haven't been talking too much have I? Oh no, I always talk too much."

"Oh no, no. Not at all."

"Absolutely not! Very informative."

"What exactly is afflicting Mr. Forrestal? Ms….umm…" He glanced at her name tag. "….McMichaels?" attempting to keep the conversation going.

The nurse blushed, obviously flattered that he'd 'remembered' her name "I'm not quite sure to be honest. His doctor's been quite tight-lipped about it." She drew close to them and whispered "Sometimes, these…illnesses…can be rather, well, embarrassing." She pointed a finger at her head and spun it around to indicate lunacy.

Both agents nodded in return.

"I honestly don't even know if they'll let you see him."

They turned a corner and quickly averted their glaze. There in front of them, out the window the lifeless form of James Forrestal lay sprawled on the roof.

* * *

***Shibe Park, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (Same day)**

Kim Philby was growing bored of this American baseball. Although, as the consul had pointed out earlier, it did bear a superficial resemblance to Philby's beloved cricket, Philby found it was course, required only a modicum of intelligence or sophistication to understand and play, and was endlessly dull, much like the prosperous but air-headed nation that birthed it. The Phillies were clearly winning, and yet the clock kept dragging on, with little new activity. 'Almost the 7th Inning,' he thought, his demeanor unchanging despite the ball of nervousness in his stomach.

The day had started out well.

He had driven in from Washington that morning and arrived at the Honorary Consulate down on Market Street.

There had been no major headaches at the small office, just a routine inspection, lots of hand-shaking and sweet-talking. At one point a visibly worried consul had taken Philby aside and told him with the utmost of sincerity that he suspected the Russians were watching the place. Philby had almost laughed. The NKVD could care less about a little honorary consulate. They went for the jugular. As First Secretary of the British Embassy, and one of Britain's most important intelligence agents in the United States, he knew NKVD tactics like the back of his hand.**

"Suppose I sound a bit of a worry-wort," the consul had said, embarrassed. "It's just, all these rumors of spies we keep hearing..."

Philby had patted the man on the back. "Nonsense! Just doing your duty as a loyal civil servant of His Majesty***. As for the Reds, rest assured the intelligence services are working night and day to foil these treacherous rogues."

The man had left the meeting with a giant smile on his face.

'Stupid old fool' Philby thought to himself. 'Wouldn't know a Soviet agent from his grandmother.'

Then again, such ignorance was to be expected from a man educated in the _state schools_.

"_Out!_"

It was the beginning of the 7th Inning. He tapped the consul and told him that he'd be back. The consul gave him a knowing glance and discreetly pointed to the earplugs in his ears. Apparently Philby wasn't the only one who hated hearing the famous 7th Inning song.

He slipped down the wooden stairs as the raucous singing began and slowly made his way toward a series of concession stands. He was soon joined by another man, pretending as if he hadn't seen Philby."

"What do you want?' Philby said dryly. He always hated handlers.

"Bobby wants to know why you sacrificed the lamb."

"Our pigeon at Aberdeen crowed."

"For what reason?"

"He said he knew him from the war, that he might talk."

"After all our efforts to discredit him?"

"That only made him more desperate. At any rate, our bear made it look like a suicide."

The handler looked around. Saying such explosive words in such a public place made him nervous. "The Doves already suspect something."

"Relax" Philby says. _The Doves_ have no idea what's going on. I should know, after all." His handler didn't seem convinced. "Cyphreus checked out who they've assigned to the case. A low-level operative named Jennie Hamilton. Young, inexperienced, naïve. She wouldn't begin to suspect someone _in_ the embassy. And if she does, well, there are some dangerous places in Washington a young girl shouldn't be after nightfall."

* * *

_*Shibe Park (later called Connie Mack Stadium) was the baseball stadium used by the Phillies from 1938 to 1970._

_**Amongst many other things, (some of which will be revealed in this story) Kim Philby was in fact First Secretary of the British Embassy in Washington DC, as well as being one of the UK's top intelligence operatives in the US._

***King George VI (depicted in The King's Speech) was the reigning monarch in 1949. However, by the time of this story, his health was already deteriorating severely and he died three years later in 1952. He was succeeded by his daughter, Queen Elizabeth II, who currently reigns._  
_

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**


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